She rose in early morning, the day
Of new hope, spring in January,
As the Sun thawed her heart
Blossoming red once more.
The silk of a man’s tenderness;
Lost in her rent memories of a husband—
Bruised petals at his feet,
A youth he strew about
Wildly as if love were a trinket to torture her with—
Violence on her scars.
Years plot in bad soil, her rose wilted, waiting for
No one, allowing her beauty to shame from the Sun:
Falling backwards into his empty embrace,
Gouging the double-edged thorns of his promise blind,
Learning that mistakes can’t teach you a thing until you make them;
That even so, you make them again and again.
The blood she shed for others
In tears and petals withered,
Rid her of the flower befuddled by masculinity,
Palming grit aimlessly for romance’s indecipherable leaves—
The charm of his eyes, the vow of his smile, the succor of his virility—
But rather for what love had deprived her of;
For what it still owed her.
We watched as if we saw her,
But witnessed what she no longer was.
Miraculously, as dead as plucked on asphalt, arid by the
Everyday, at its core, the bud entombed in petals, ever so
Crimson fluttering on her cheeks,
Bled love anew on the day of her wedding.